Today in Self Google Stalking Today:Dirty Filthy Edition

It's true when they say "the Internet is forever." Still floating around from the early days of Teh Series of Tubes is the following, a short chapter from the defunct unfinished novel "Cole Stoma" that your humble blogger posted a brief decade ago to the usenet group alt.sex.stories and that was chosen as one of the month's "best of" by mysterious porn-fiction reviewer "Celeste" and archived for all eternity at this very not-safe-for-work site. Here it is, for your adults-only enjoyment. The real name of the guilty has been redacted, but an old pseudonym has been retained in the interest of history. In addition, the strong urge to edit has been resisted. Get your Kleenex ready. You have been warned.

The following is Copyright 1996 by Tomb Lung all rights reversed marca registrada patent pending ad hominem corpus delicti cogito ergo cum.

Parsley Garnish and the Prostate Tooth
or, Little Open Big Pinch Plays Dentist

"War or peace, hate or love. What difference does it make? It's the same God, same Satan; they're just fucking us up different dentrifices."
-- Noam Crosby

Little pinch here, little pinch here, little pinch here. Open big, open big, open big. Little pinch. Open big. Open. So John Kitchener calls to make an appointment with the heterodontist; been having trouble with this prostate tooth he used to pimp for.

I tell him forget it, come on over here. We'll fix him up. Comes in with three feet of unwaxed floss up his can and a water pick on full blast.

"You holdin' out on me? You fuckin' holdin' out on me?"

Pathetic orgone bag. Tension so thin you need a soup spoon. No tension, no release.

Half-inch-thick layer of tartar on his perineum. I sigh and start scraping.

Open big. Little pinch now.

John kisses me hard on the lips without warning or warmup, screws his wet mouth onto mine righty tighty crossing the threads as the torque and the heat and the friction welds our lips together. He injects his tongue like molten plastic into a mold, sneaks it in there, lolls it in, without force or ambition. I don't fight, and wonder why, like Larry Tate wondering why he just gave Darrin a raise after the schmuck fucked up the Macmillan account.

He kisses me again under the big lamp hanging from the ceiling like a robotic scrotum, incandescent brimstone glare shining into his eyeballs and his red retinas staring deep into not only my third eye, but my third soul. Hot enough to melt amalgam, I grope him out of the chair and we fall to the floor in a clench. My hygienist, Dinah, straps on a big black vascular dildo--a perfect match to her Abyssinian skin--and fucks me in the ass while I massage John's ailing prostate with the blunt end of my dental pick. He moans as I tickle his aching gland and tease him to erection.

I rub his glans against my pussy lips in a figure eight pattern to moisten the purple head; I grab his cock at the base and stroke his septum with my burning clit. I force him inside me and begin to gyrate, sweating and moaning. I reach up to the spit sink, grab the suction hose, and press its mouth against my clit. My nub to distends grotesquely into the plastic orifice, sucks a good inch into the tube like a billion frayed nerve endings being slurped from the bottom of a cup through a krazy straw; my shrieks drown out the brapping raspberry noise of it.

Everything on earth is swollen and red. "You're gonna have to gas me," John whispers.

"No need. I've got it piped in through the ventilation system."

"Oh yeah. Ohhh yeeaahhh . . ."

Dinah emits a frustrated whimper, scowls. She points at her dripping cunt in mock distress.

"Anita," she moans (her pet name for me). "Who has put this pubic hair on my crack?"

"Professor Thrill," I coo (my pet name for her). "Are you a scorned woman?"

"Ooh, Anita . . . Aneeeeeeeeeta . . ."

I ball up a soft wad of impression material, jab the putty-like goop onto the bit of my drill, and jelly it up. About thirty thousand rpm applied to that bitch's clit, her puckering vulva; she jerks spasmodically from the excess stimulus, cums in shimmering white waves. We collapse into fetal mounds of exhausted joy.

John stands over us, towering and surging with orgasmic power, jerking off with both hands, spraying a constant arc of tapiocal jismic mucilage over us, cascading us with sizzling hot cum, drenching our naked, writhing bodies, droplet by droplet, spurt by spurt. Dinah passes out, three fingers buried in her cunt, and then everything fades away from me, too . . .

I don't know when Kitchener leaves, but he's still cumming when he does; leaves a slug's slime trail of it down the hallway and into the parking lot.